


A More Perfect Union Revisited

by killyhawk



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killyhawk/pseuds/killyhawk
Summary: If Shaw had been at the wedding.





	A More Perfect Union Revisited

“Sorry I missed all the fun,” you tell John, cinching zip ties around the wrists of one of the perps. His wound’s been tended to. Nothing life-threatening.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he replies, working to restrain the other. “Root showed up on _horseback_. Took Maggie to safety.”

“You’re shitting me.”

John gives a quick shake of his head.

Where did a reclusive computer geek like Root learn to ride horses? You thought her family didn’t have any money. Either John needs his eyes checked or one hell of a story awaits you.

“Well that would’ve been something to see,” you muse out loud. You picture her riding up on a black stallion, wearing leather chaps and an embroidered vest. Maybe a cowboy hat, a riding crop… You shiver and tell yourself it’s the cold of the cellar.

With the gunmen soundly subdued, John wanders over to the nearest wine rack and wipes some dust off a top-shelf specimen.

“One of these things is not like the others…” he murmurs and picks it up, rolling it over to read the label. Looks like the Turners were keeping some Yamazaki alongside their Schloss Vollrads.

“Mind if I take this?” he asks. He turns to the woman bound on the floor, but her words are badly muffled by the gag in her mouth. John takes that as a ‘be my guest.’

“Let’s get out of here,” you tell him, already heading for the spiral staircase. “We’re missing the hors d’oeuvres.”

John’s really damn happy about that scotch. He has a big smirk on his face as he follows you back to the dining hall.

Your eyes scan the room, quickly noting and disregarding a few dozen faces before you find the small round table where your teammates are seated: Harold in his tweed vest, and Root…

You involuntarily stop in your tracks, your next breath sucked through your teeth in a soft hiss.

She’s changed out of the bulky chef getup and is now wearing a formal black dress you’ve never seen before that cuts low on her chest. The way the material shimmers under the chandelier, it’s probably made of silk. Her hair cascades over her left shoulder in perfect ringlets and her skin - usually suitably pale for a nerd who lives underground - looks like ivory cast in shadow.

You’ve seen a lot of hot guys and girls, but this is the first time in memory you’ve wanted to call someone “beautiful.”

In the soft light she’s practically glowing. She’s fucking _radiant_. It was like someone took every warm, pleasant, intoxicating thing in the world and shot it directly into her veins. Her eyes are shining like brandy held up to firelight, her hair waves of flowing bronze. You don’t know what kind of voodoo Root cast to put these thoughts into your head, but you don’t trust it for a second.

It’s then that her bright doe eyes meet yours, and what does she do? She smiles coyly and averts her gaze as though you were high school sweethearts at prom. Your stomach flip-flops.

Root, ever the hunter, is suddenly playing the hunted, and you have to admit the snare is working.

Suddenly, in that moment, as you take her in from across the room, you know you want her more than anything… more than a well-trained dog, more than a shiny new firearm, more than all the steaks in St Louis. You don’t even know what “wanting her” means when she’s already yours, but the sentiment still rings true.

But you know seeing her sit there demurely isn’t enough. You want to see her body move under that light fabric. You want to feel her warmth beneath your hands. You want to feel her writhing against you...

Your preferred method of making that happen probably isn’t appropriate in the middle of someone’s wedding reception, but you can think of one way to get her up and moving…

Your abrupt stop has made John falter, too. He sees your eyes widen in the direction of the table and thinks something might be wrong, but then he sees Root’s pretty smile, together with your own shocked countenance, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math. He smiles warmly at you, a knowing twinkle in his eye. You shoot him a quick, scathing look. He expects no less and continues towards the table, bottle in hand. You collect yourself and follow suit.

John walks counterclockwise around the table to sit at Harold’s left. You go the other way and wind up standing slightly past Root’s shoulder. She turns in one fluid motion and looks up at you wearing the gentlest, most yielding expression you can imagine her making. Your breath catches and your stomach drops pleasantly. What is she doing to you?

You cough once to get breathing again and have to glance away from those probing eyes to keep your resolve.

“Do you wanna…” you start, looking vaguely in the direction of the festivities. Your brow knits uncertainly. “Do you wanna dance, maybe?”

You turn and see her eyes widen first in surprise, then light up with the smile that’s spreading across her face. You steal a self-conscious glance at the others and see Harold practically gaping, while John only smirks into his tumbler. You know you probably look more suited to throwing a punch than waltzing, standing rigid like you are, but Root is still smiling up at you, one brow arched in amusement.

“Well?”

“I think you’re supposed to offer me your hand, Sameen,” she informs you, suddenly looking more like the Root you know and less like a black-clad seraph. You extend your palm a little too forcefully and stare her down. Root’s smile only widens as she primly places her hand in yours and gets up from the table. You pretend to ignore the look she throws the boys over her shoulder as you head for the dance floor.

Truth be told, you can already feel yourself relaxing the instant her cool skin touches yours; somehow Root’s a balm for every irritant (even when that irritant is her). You can see the whole of her outfit now, and note with approval how the dress gently caresses her hips with each step. The fabric is so light she might as well be wearing a bed sheet…

You smile to yourself and squeeze her hand as you near the outskirts of the makeshift dance floor, signaling that this spot will do.

A couple guests spare you a curious glance, but everyone’s too polite to let it linger. It’s clear Root has eyes only for you as she turns with that doting smile on her face. You answer her with a small smile of your own, your free hand settling comfortably on her right hip as though made for the curvature of her body. Her black-painted nails come to rest on your shoulder and she gives her hair a little toss. You raise your still-entwined fingers and begin swaying to the 50’s love song pouring through the speakers (because apparently these millionaires couldn’t spring for a live band, cheapskates).

You dance in silence for a time, holding Root’s earnest gaze as long as you can - but she breaks first, eyes wandering to find the bride and groom amongst the crowd. Their faces are so close together they’re practically eskimo kissing. Family members all around cheer and tease, making them flash bright smiles at each other. Their joy means little and nothing to you, but it’s clear whatever they have is genuine.

When Root turns to you again, her eyes are shining with loud, mushy sentiment. You might not be great at the whole feelings thing, but you're pretty sure you know what she's thinking.

Still you ask, “What?”

She smiles wistfully.

“Thinking about that being us someday…” She says it so easily, no hint of shame. Root looks at the happy couple again, then cocks her head as though a thought just occurred to her. “I guess we’d both wear dresses…”

You scoff.

“Yeah, and Bear can be the ring-bear,” you throw in.

Root smirks wickedly.

“And John the maid of honor.”

“Hah!” The visual’s too perfect.

“I’m thinking a fall-winter wedding,” she continues. “Maybe November...”

“Hey, I didn’t _agree_ to anything,” you warn her, but you’re surprised at the playfulness in your voice. “I was just making a pun.”

Root shakes her head at you like she has the patience of a saint.

“Oh please, Sameen,” she says. “Name _one_ way that we aren’t practically married by your standards already.”

You open your mouth for a speedy retort.

Pause.

The rules used to be simple: No sleepovers. You held Root to that until one night you were both so exhausted from countless orgasms that you didn’t have the energy to kick her out. She was allowed a pillow and one half of the bed. Come morning Root was still there, ready and willing to do it all again. It was a good day, full of fingers and tongues and pancakes.

After that she sometimes followed you home in the wake of a mission and there was no sex at all - just her soft snoring and endless legs.

When eventually you got tired of answering the door at odd hours of the night you just gave her a key. Root took full advantage of this new access; at different times you’d come home to find food from your favorite steak joint waiting on the counter, a new “toy” on the bed, or, best yet, Root herself perched on the edge of your mattress, a devious smile on her face.

You were firm on the “no shag carpet” thing, but then you compromised and let Root put a plush purple mat in the bathroom. One day you discovered you had a curtain and toothbrush holder to match. Pretty soon her personal touch was everywhere: a couple gaudy throw pillows on the couch, a drawer full of tasers and random electronics, half the closet taken up by leather jackets, yogurt in the fridge, lavender hand soap by the sink… They remind you of her presence even when she’s away, and some part of you knows the space would feel emptier without them. Literally, but also… on a deeper level.

You’ve never been one for PDAs either, but even there you’ve grown lax, especially when a well-timed squeeze can make Harold squirm like a nun. John rolls his eyes in exasperation but you know he secretly likes it.

Hell, you haven’t even slept with anyone else since the night you turned Tomas down… not out of some sappy moral code, but the knowledge that sex with anyone else wouldn’t be as good as it is with Root anyway. She knows all your kinks, meets all your needs, and doesn’t flinch when you tell her exactly what you want. Besides, the thought of upsetting her turns your innards cold. You protect each other, and as she’s wheedled her way into your life, you wonder if maybe that constitutes protecting her heart, too.

You frown slightly and meet those shining, chestnut eyes.

“Okay, but how does someone presumed dead and someone with no identity at all get _married_?”

Root beams at you, taking your question as a step in the right direction.

“Oh, I’m sure She’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a short drabble in response to 5x6 and it was well received, but I realize now what I REALLY wanted to see was Shaw reacting to Root looking so drop. dead. gorgeous. Like seriously.
> 
> Feedback, as always, is much appreciated!


End file.
